Category Archives: Who Cares?

So, That’s What It’s Like To Have Pneumonia…

….again

Hi kids! Last Monday I was feeling kinda poorly, and then I was feeling like a truck had run over me and the truck was hauling a trailer, and the trailer had a tractor on it, and the tractor was pulling another trailer, and that trailer was full of manure.

Wet manure.

No, wait…maybe I didn’t feel that good.

It was a semi that ran over me.  A flat bed semi, hauling the space shuttle, pulling the truck/trailer/tractor combo.

Yeah, that’s closer to how I felt by noon last Monday.

The rest of the week is a blur.  A horrible, cough-wracked, chest hurts, wheezy, feverish blur.

Team Pneumonia was kicking my ass, until the Big A (for amoxicillin) came to my rescue.  It was a close one, but in the end my defense proved too tough.

And,  I lost ten pounds, so victory?

I Must Have Taken the “W” Train

You know how we all kid when we’re talking about how before someone was born they missed the brain train, or looks train, or whatever?

Don’t read me in that tone, you know we’ve all done it.

Well, I took the W train where ‘W’ means weird.

Not that I’m weird.

Okay, I may be just a bit weird.

Alright, a LOT weird.

But, my body..my body is weird in so many ways.

Like the time everyone in the family got pink eye, except me.  I got cellulitis and the ophthalmologist treating me was so excited (giddy, actually) to see it he dragged out the huge book of “Eye Diseases: Things That Look Horrid and Can Kill” (I may have made up that title) to excitedly tell me that he’d heard of this in school, but never thought he’d see it.  It being the bacteria marching through my eye and headed to my brain (it stopped before the brain, thank God, or I’d be posting this from the hereafter).

Or the time I got strep throat, tested positive for it, and my tonsils had been gone for over 40 years. Or when I got mono, from one of my grandchildren, or when I got mumps twice, or when my skin turned green as a Martian and one side of my neck (lymph gland) looked like I’d swallowed a softball and it was lodged there, and NO ONE knew what was wrong with me..never figured it out, and no it wasn’t hepatitis.

Or the time I stopped breathing because the doctor gave me a shot of penicillin.  I was three, and sick, and that’s how sick three year olds were treated in the Stone Age.  That lead to a lifelong theory that I was deathly allergic to penicillin, until I did the penicillin challenge test, and yay! I’m not allergic to penicillin, but when I take it I get all puke-y, so I really didn’t gain anything.

I told the allergy doc about my weird body when I went to see her for my pineapple allergy.

Hmm…wassat?  You’ve never heard of a person being allergic to pineapples?

Neither had I, or she, until I ate pineapple one day – after years of enjoying this delicious fruit without incident – and immediately found breathing terribly difficult as my throat closed.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was the first time that pineapple was the only thing I’d eaten, so it was the first time I realized that I was allergic to pineapple and not the preservatives in trail mix.  You see, a few weeks before this I’d eaten a trail mix with dried fruit and nuts. It had pineapple in it and shortly after eating it my hands doubled in size and my arms, hands, neck, and face were covered in hives.

That was fun.

No, no it wasn’t, but I blamed the preservatives and swore off anything dried.

After the last episode I went to the allergy doctor and told her about the pineapple reaction.

She stared at me for at least a full minute before saying, “I’ve been doing this for over 15 years, and I’ve never heard of that.”

Of course she hadn’t, but then she hadn’t known me back then.

Rather than have me test the pineapple theory, to be sure I had the allergy, she gave me an Epi-Pen to carry around.

Because, PINEAPPLE and ninja PINEAPPLE are out there, people.

Brain-stipated

Sometimes I have stuff happen in my life and I write about it, and sometimes I don’t.  That doesn’t mean I don’t still need to write about it.

I’m a writer, and writers write.

I also am not  a big fan of cliches.

It’s just that after not writing for any length of time I get brain-stipated.   It’s like I can’t function properly because there’s too much going on.

And at the same time, I sit at my computer and my hands hover over the keyboard.  I can’t write.

I’m brain-stipated, and no amount of fiber is going to help.

I have to force myself to sit down and write something, anything, and fast.

I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I’m afraid my brain will shut down, and I’ll lose all sense of self.  In effect, ceasing to exist.

It’s really that dramatic, and it’s really not.

Brain-stipated, see?

How do people who don’t feel compelled to write see the world differently than me?  Are they simply voyeurs?  Watching the world go by with no dialogue streaming in their heads?  No need to put into words all that they experience?

How does that work?  I’d really like to know, because there are plenty of times when I wish I could just turn it all off for a while and instead of getting brain-stipated I’d just be calm and at peace.

Maybe, if I could figure out how to drug the endless procession of characters that bang on the inner doors of my head trying to get out I could relax.

Until then, though, you’ll just have to put up with the inane ramblings of the brain-stipated mind.

 

And That’s How I Unintentionally Saved and Spent $800 in The Same Day

Last week our 2 1/2-yr. old Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television went on an acid trip.

We’d turn it on, and after a moment or two, the pictures would go all psychedelic colors and such.

I verified it wasn’t just me seeing it, and concluded that the television had dropped acid.

My husband gave me the side-eye.

“Well, at least that’s what I’d heard it was like.”

He shook his head…his wife may, or may not, have partaken in some 60’s psychedelic culture but that paled in comparison to the fact that his beloved Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television now seemed to be on a permanent trip.

“Maybe it’s the cable box,” I said, trying to be helpful, “let’s have a tech come out here and swap them out before we go assuming a television that’s only a couple of years old has gone on the fritz.”

So, we did.

That’s when things went horribly awry.

A young tech, bearing a striking resemblance to every young man I’d ever met in the 60’s (what is with me and the 60’s all of a sudden?), came to the house and powered up the Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television, simultaneously oohing and aahhing over hubby’s impressive man-cave interior decorations.

The television powered up, dropped acid, and psychedelic-ishness (it’s a word..now) ensued.

“Yep, it’s probably the HDMI interface on the flux-capacitor.” The tech said, or something like that I’m not technical.

So, the tech went and got a new box and cable and came back in the house, this time with his driver/helper in tow, and proceeded to swap stuff out while the driver/helper oohed and aahhed over hubby’s man-cave.

The task accomplished, the tech hit the power button on the television.

Nothing happened, except the blue standby light flashed.

And flashed.

And flashed.

It appeared, after several attempts, that the last acid trip had been a fatal one.

Our 2 1/2-yr. old Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television was dead and gone.

Hubby mourned.

The tech was visibly shaken, and I didn’t know why until he mumbled something about “an incident report”.  That sounded ominous, so I asked him what that meant.

“It means that since ‘we’ (as in we the cable company) were the last to touch the television, and it was working when we got here, then ‘we’ will take responsibility for replacing the television.”

“Oh…but…” Hubby shot me ‘the look’ and I stopped.

What I was going to say, though, was I didn’t see how swapping a cable box would kill a television.

But, I’m not technical, and maybe the flux-capacitor is touchier than I thought, so there’s that.

The tech and his helper left shortly thereafter, and I found a repairman to come out that day to see if our 2 1/2-yr. old Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television could be saved.

The two repair techs disassembled the back, placed testers on various components, clucked their tongues a lot and proceeded to shake their heads.

It appeared, the older one said, that our worst fears were realized. The television had gone to the big remote in the sky.

The good news was the part that failed, the main board, could be replaced.

There was rejoicing in the kingdom.

Except every television made around the same time as ours must have used the same main board because none were to be had, and no one was making any more. Ever.

“It is the company’s way of forcing you into buying a new television.” The tech added, not helpfully.

So, the television techs left and we proceeded to search online for a replacement television.

Guess what you can’t find anymore?

A Philips 46″ Flat Screen, LCD, 1080p, 240hz, television.

You can get a 48” flat screen, but then it’s LED, not LCD, and it’s 120hz, not 240 hz.

You can get a 240hz, but only in LED, and then it’s a Samsung.

You can get an LCD, but then it’s a ginormous screen and too big for our needs, or it’s a tiny screen and too small for the space.

Searching for hours, only to be disappointed time and again, we finally settled on a 48” Samsung, LED, SMART, television on sale for $799.

And, it was shown to be in stock at our local Best Buy.

Again, there was much rejoicing in the kingdom.

I called the store, and repeated the SKU number for the helpful clerk.

“Oh, the Samsung 48”, right?”

“Yes, the site indicates you have them in stock.”

“Yes, let me check inventory.”

*horrid hold music plays*

“Ma’am?” the clerk said getting back on the line, “we show those to be on backorder.”

“Do you have an expected ship date?”

“No.”

Sigh……….

 

 

I Require Adult Supervision

Most every time I go out in public, I end up with a story.

Earlier this week I went to a local Sprawl Mart to get a few things for the office.

It was a simple shopping trip.

But, we are a talking about me here.

I got to the self-checkout lane and rung up my purchases. I swiped my credit card, and that’s when things went horribly awry.

The screen read “Processing…Please Wait”, and it stuck there.

The helpful cashier monitoring the self-checkout lanes came over and tried to cancel, tried to suspend, tried…everything.

It didn’t work.

Instead, it got worse.

Slowly, I noticed cashiers and customers alike up and down the checkout lanes mashing buttons and cursing the gods of shopping as purchases were stuck in limbo.

Apparently, I’d broken Sprawl Mart.

Finally, after many minutes, one manager with long false eyelashes and nails started mashing on buttons at her console and the gods of shopping released their death grip on the machines.

I finished my transaction and booked it out of there.

I got in my car and noticed I needed gas, so I stopped at the nearest place and as the gas was pumping I decided I needed a vat of soda from their vast fountain selections.

I filled the vat with ice and diet soda, went to sit it on the counter so I could pay, and my miscalculations as to the height of said counter led to soda-launching as if from a trebuchet.

The now-drenched clerk waiting to ring me up stood there blinking at me, pieces of ice and rivers of soda running down her hair, face, shirt.

“Well, at least it’s diet…so…umm…you…uh…won’t….be…you know, sticky…” I mumbled as I backed away, intent on reloading refilling my vat…because, dammit, destroying the world is thirsty business.

When I came back to the counter, I had a new victim clerk waiting to take my money.

I paid, and got the hell out of there.

And this is why we can’t have nice things, and why I shouldn’t be allowed out without a chaperone.

Ever.

The Universe Hates Me

On Saturday the flat of herbs, onions, and garlic that I optimistically bought in early March, thinking I actually lived in Texas and not in Minnesota only to find out that I did, indeed, live in Minnesota this year although it looks just like Texas and I don’t recall moving, but anything is possible.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, right…Saturday I finally got to plant my kitchen garden in my little 6X4 raised bed that hubby built for me a few years ago and our new dog had decided made the perfect place to create a hole to snuggle down into, completely ignoring her expensive dog house with the fluffy bedding inside, creating craters here and there that I then had to redistribute the dirt over and smooth flat before planting.

Once that was all done, and all the herbs, onions, and garlic was planted I added a garden fencing material that looked substantial in the picture and advertisement, but turned out to be about as stout as a bath mat, but it was all I had and I wanted to keep the dog out of it so I put it up around the garden and hubby helped prop/anchor it in place.

Anyhoo – after three hours of digging, raking, planting, watering, and fence-ing I was tired and sore and a little sunburned, but I had a lovely little kitchen garden in the making.

On Sunday, I could barely move and I had a migraine. The pain was intense, because all my fun had triggered a severe fibro flare.

Apparently, this was the universe’s way of thanking me for going green or something.

And, today, the wind is blowing at about elebenty-hunnert miles an hour so when I get home I expect the fencing to have blown away from the garden to become a giant chew toy for the dog, she will have redistributed plants and dirt and reclaimed the bed, and I will attempt to salvage what’s left of my herbs, onions, and garlic.

Tomorrow, I’ll have another severe fibro flare and will have to work ten hours.

Well played, universe.

Well played indeed.

I Should Put the Word ‘Nazi’ in This Post’s Title, But I Won’t

I mean, seriously, if I use that word I get like a bajillion visits in a day.

Nazi.

So, since readership has fallen off I’ve decided to let my standards slip to the floor and do something I abhor.

Like shameless usage of words I know will get attention.

Not in a good way.

Nazi.

I’m such a disappointment.

And an attention whore.

Obvs.

 

Happy Merry Christmas/New Year/Kwanzaa/Boxing Day/Hump Day!

Been away a while, haven’t I?

I blame the weather.  It’s cold….elswhere, so I’ve had trouble concentrating.

Just go with it.

Hugs, and I’ll post a real post soon. 

Really.

It’s That Time of Year

…whenIshouldbegettingreadyforalongwinterbreakwithChristmasandNewYear’sandrelaxinginfrontoftheglowoftheChristmastreelights…

*breath*

Instead, we just got the tree up but not decorated, and I’m still waiting for all the gifts to arrive (I shop online whenever possible).

My house looks like I’m in the midst of moving, half-full boxes of Christmas decorations and the boxes that hold those decorations are in just about every room.

We just got back from another frigid trip to Missouri.  This time to bury my sweet mother-in-law.

It was a sad time, but the snowfall was beautiful.

snow1

And this is a short week before I’m off again.

 

How do rock bands do it?

 

Nevermind, most of them aren’t as old as me.

 

If I don’t get back here..Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to be on the safe side, Happy Easter!

Apparently I Make a Terrible Overpaid Receptionist, Or Something

As an executive admin I had to relieve our receptionist at lunch from time to time when I worked for Major Retailer at their corporate headquarters.

This is how the phone exchanges went every time:

ME: Thank you for calling Major Retailer, how may I direct your call?

CALLER: Is Mr. Bigshot there?

ME: May I ask who’s calling?

CALLER: Mr. Biggershot

ME: One moment,please.

Then, I’d hit the “HOLD” button and everything that just took place would disappear from my brain.

Sometimes, I had to go back to the caller 2-3 times before I’d retain the information long enough to transfer the call to the right person.

Before too long, I was permanently relieved from receptionist relief.

I never have figured out why.  My guess is they paid me too much to sit up at the front desk and take calls.